


With A Devil On Your Back

by orphan_account



Series: Chao's Kink Bingo [5]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Community: kink_bingo, Emotion Play, Emotional Abuse, M/M, Poor Stiles, Serious misuse of Kamina venom, Wow this is fucked up, non-con
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-05
Updated: 2012-08-05
Packaged: 2017-11-11 12:23:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,857
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/478513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the events of 2x10, Matt has a little one-on-one (ish) time with Stiles.</p>
            </blockquote>





	With A Devil On Your Back

**Author's Note:**

> TAKE NOTE OF THE WARNINGS ON THIS ONE
> 
> Titles from 'Shake It Out' by Florence + The Machine

As Matt dragged Stiles’ limp body away from the others, he wished for _something_ to happen. Anything, really. He wasn’t picky. Not about this. He’d take any of Derek’s possibly psychotic Betas jumping out from behind the corner to slice the son of a bitch to pieces and then mock the shit out of them for getting caught in the first place. Maybe one of the deputies or even his dad, coming around with guns drawn. The Argents too, weapons ready and at least prepared to deal with the Kamina.

Hell, for one dark moment, Stiles would have taken Ms. McCall stumbling in, confused and unaware and above all distracting. 

But no one came. Stiles was completely on his own with a murderer-by-proxy, and he had no clue what was going through Matt’s mind. He couldn’t even look around to figure out where the other boy was dragging them so determinedly. But Stiles was pretty sure he wasn’t going to like it, especially given the odd sort of energy that was coming off of him.

Finally, they reached their destination. It was the a small interrogation room right beside where Matt had locked up Stiles’ father. Through the thin walls, he could hear the sounds of chain rattling and soft movements. Stiles couldn’t tell if the noises were because his father was trying to break free of just moving around. Frankly, he wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

“Listen to Daddy go.” Matt remarked, voice cheerful and eyes sharp, all the more startling for the contradiction. “He just cannot stay still, can he? Guess that must be where you get it from.”

Stiles grit his teeth, because it was something he could _do_. “What do you want, Matt?”

Grinning, slow and with far too much teeth, Matt pushed Stiles back so that he hit the wall and flopped down it, muscles still uselessly slack. “Oh, I want plenty of things. A little recognition would be nice. And there’s a few more people who need to pay before I’m satisfied. Mort short term? You, Stilinski. I want you.”

Head flopping to the side, unable to hold itself up, Stiles managed a deep frown. “What?”

“It’s not that hard a concept, really.” Matt drawled back, expression condescending.

Grinding his teeth harder, Stiles rolled his eyes as hard as he could. “What happened to your thing for Allison?” And, yeah, maybe he was an asshole for throwing her under the metaphorical bus, but Allison wasn’t here and Stiles was. Deflection was his best defense. “Gave up on that pretty quick.”

Fury flashed across Matt’s face, and before Stiles had even registered him moving there was a crack, and pain bloomed over his cheek. “Don’t talk about her like that,” he hissed, moving in far too close. “This has nothing to do with Allison. She’s lovely. Pure. Above this sort of thing. But you’re not, are you?” Eyes narrowing, he gave Stiles another one of those toothy leers.

Stiles wanted to laugh. He wanted to snort right in Matt’s face. But more than both of those, he kind of wanted to cry. Really? Maybe Stiles should tell Matt all about that near empty box of condoms in Scott’s room, or inform him of his own... not-deflowered state. That would really put a crimp in his plans, wouldn’t it?

The words wouldn’t come out, though. Every breath came out stuttered and thin, making it impossible to get a deep lungful, and a lump had formed in his throat. Even if he could make himself say the words, actually _really_ throw Allison in the line of fire like that, he couldn’t get the words out past his frantic, useless inhalations. Years later, he still remembered what the beginnings of a panic attack felt like.

Problem was, Stiles was pretty damn sure he wasn’t going to get the calm he needed to stop it.

Clearly taking the silence as proof that he was right, Matt shot Stiles a superior look, like the boy was something vile and twisted. He did his best to shoot the look right back, but with the way he was shaking slightly and his mouth was open in desperate pants, he got the feeling that his version wasn’t as effective.

Settling down on his knees next to Stiles, Matt shoved him back a little, forcing his back to flatten against the wall. Like this, Stiles could feel the vibrations of the chain pulling on the wall, and the sounds of his father’s soft grunts and quiet words of frustration (mostly curses) were all the more audible. “Damn kid.” The words were soft and filled with pure frustration. Another, sharper clink of the chains made Stiles’ jump - or, as much as his muscles would allow. “What’s he gotten himself into? Gunna get himself killed.”

 _Killed_.

They were words Stiles knew he was never supposed to hear. Intellectually, he could have even been able to argue that they were just grumbles of frustration - venting emotion and energy, not meant to be taken seriously. 

But Stiles _had_ heard them. Heard them more than once, heard them like they were echoed from that horrible waking dream at Lydia’s party. And right now he just couldn’t take that, not coupled with his own threat looming over him, watching him with eyes bright with insanity while his lungs refused to take in air properly.

The world felt like it was spinning, like it was coming out from under him, and Stiles wasn’t sure if it was the oxygen deprivation or the hurt.

_Damn kid._

_And now you’re killing me_.

It hurt. All of him hurt. Stiles hurt from being dragged and from being manhandled and from the stupid cut on his neck and the way his lungs were _burning_ and from the way his stomach had dropped out of him and sank through the floor. It all came together in some horrible mess, and he could feel his eyes heating and getting wet without his permission.

Above him, Matt chuckled. “Aww, poor little Stiles. Daddy’s not very happy with you, is he?” His voice was even quieter now, just a low murmur, and Stiles wasn’t sure if it was to match his scathing words, or because he didn’t want his father to hear. “Can’t blame him, can we? After all, you’ve caused him so much trouble in the past couple of weeks. Months, actually. Hell, have you ever not been trouble, Stilinski? Kinda doubt it. The man has the patience of a Saint to deal with you for so long.”

Stiles wanted to snarl right back, to tell Matt that it wasn’t his fault. It was the asshole controlling the murder lizard’s fault. But the words didn’t make it past his gasped breaths, choking somewhere in his throat, and Stiles hoped that he didn’t throw up. Panic attacks and vomit were a bad combination. He remember that all too well.

Humming thoughtfully, Matt gave him a look far too satisfied to be sympathetic as he placed his hand over Stiles’. “It must be awful for him too. Even just going around to the store. Who doesn’t know what happened? The Sheriff got fired because of his son’s stupid actions. Can you imagine what walking around must be like for him? The whispers and the looks of pity. A good man, getting punished because of what his son did. Poor man, he doesn’t deserve to have that sort of burden.”

The only thing that kept Stiles from gagging was the fact that he physically couldn’t. He’d thought about everything Matt was saying before. It was true, no doubt. Over the past few days, Stiles had been trying to avoid his brain going down that path, but he couldn’t always avoid it. To hear the words get repeated at him, confirmed and added to just made it all worse. It was like being physically slapped. 

Tears were streaming down his face now, snot adding a wet sound his his hyperventilation, and Stiles had no choice but to flop his head back as well as he could to try and keep his throat and mouth clear. The couldn’t sob, since that would require too much chest movement, and somehow that made it worse.

Suddenly, there were lips on his cheek, and Stiles’ wide, wounded eyes snapped to Matt. The other boy licked, tasting the salt, and chuckled. “That’s the difference, do you see? Allison is beautiful as she is. Whole. But you, poor little Stiles... you’re perfect when you’re _broken_.” He chuckled, sounding pleased at himself, before pressing another parody of a kiss to the corner of his eye. “Better keep quiet now. Don’t want Daddy to hear you.”

Dimly, Stiles could feel Matt lift his hand. He heard the sound of jeans being open and cloth being pushed aside. Then felt the echo of warmth, hand still too numb feel sensations properly. A shudder went through him as he realized what Matt was doing, how his hand was being curled around the source of warmth and held limply in place at Matt started to buck.

He didn’t want to look. There was still enough control in him to keep his eyes averted, head tilted back so he was staring at the ceiling rather than... than... 

But a hand clamped down around his head, hair thankfully too short to be grabbed, and physically tilted it until it was angled toward what was happening to his hand. Without meaning too, Stiles snapped his gaze where it was being pointed, eyes focusing instinctively, and was able to see the way Matt’s cock glistened with pre-come in the low light, the frantic way he was pressing into his deadened hand, the way the first hint of scales were starting to show on his hips and pelvis, crawling ever closer to consuming Matt.

It was still impossible to gag, but Stiles got very, very close.

A hiccuping noise escaped him, almost a whimper, and Matt visibly shuddered before giving one final thrust up. With the way Stiles’ head was being held in place, he was in the best spot to get splashed, ropes of come slicing over his lips and cheeks and the bridge of his nose. Some of his dripped into his still panting mouth, and Stiles could taste the sharp, bitter taste.

Dropping both his grips, Matt tucked himself away and watched Stiles for a long moment, taking in the mess of his face - tear tracks and come and saliva and snot, all mixed together to make him look like a complete wreck. Which was fair enough, because Stiles felt like one. Hell, he _was_ a wreck. As anyone.

Suddenly, Matt lashed out again, driving his heel into Stiles’ shoulder and sending him tumbling over into a heap. Panting, eyes bright and wild with sadistic pleasure, he gave a little mock of a bow. Then, wordlessly, he turned and walked about out, turning off the lights as he went.

Stiles was left where he was, tears still streaming sideways down his face, cutting clean lines through the chaos on his face, and listened to the soft sounds of his father’s struggles.


End file.
